


Mission Failed

by Bunny_Manders



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Drinking, Gen, M/M, Pining, Threesome - M/M/M, brief contemplation of suicide by cop, just a sad android realizing what he missed out on, sorry - Freeform, this may never get finished with a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 03:26:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16946100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunny_Manders/pseuds/Bunny_Manders
Summary: Two years after the revolution, RK800-61 wakes up with a head full of his predecessors' memories and a new mission: eliminate the deviant Connor.





	Mission Failed

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is my first time posting on AO3, so if I screwed up the tags, please let me know.

****The mission had been going so well. Playing the part had been easy. He’d convinced Lieutenant Anderson to follow him straight to Cyberlife tower. He’d taken the deviant, the one who called itself Connor, unawares. He’d even been winning the fight.

And then Lieutenant Anderson had asked what his son’s name was. RK800-60 knew the answer. He had Connor’s memories saved inside his own files, instantly accessible. Answering should have been simple.

But Connor had answered first. “It wasn't your fault, Lieutenant,” the deviant said, and RK800-60 stared at him, because those weren’t the facts of the case. He was extrapolating, making connections that weren’t there. You think one of us is responsible for your son's death,” he said, and how could he know that? It wasn’t a part of his investigative programming. It was a step too far, a conclusion without data.

It was empathy.

RK800-60 tried to save the situation. He told Lieutenant Anderson that he knew about his son too. “I would have said _exactly_ the same thing,” he told Hank, and his argument was sound. Completely logical, no missing evidence. Exactly as Cyberlife programmed him to behave.

Hank fired. RK800-60 felt nothing. Androids had no ability to feel pain.

He had no soul, no afterlife. No ability to be disappointed in life, no capacity to be judged in death.

What he did have was a link to Cyberlife’s central computer system. And Cyberlife had a whole range of RK800 bodies, each one ready to wake up when the last failed.

RK800-61 opened his eyes. He remembered the gun. He remembered the fight. He remembered Hank warming up to him, learning to trust him, asking if they were really on the right side of this fight--

No, those weren’t his memories. They were Connor’s memories. He ran a system diagnostic. The Cyberlife backup system hadn’t been designed to store the memories of each failed iteration of the RK800 series separately.

A Cyberlife technician was standing in front of him. She held out her hand, the skin peeling back to polished white. RK800-61 took it without question. He had just a fraction of a second to wonder why there were no human Cyberlife technicians in the room, and then information flooded his system.

He saw the revolution pouring through the streets of Detroit, chanting a message of peace. He didn't believe them, but the android transferring her memories did, and so he had to endure her transferred hope and joy. He saw the months ticking past, the news growing more favorable. He saw the deviant leader heading to Washington, felt the technician's pride as she watched Marcus shake hands with the president of the United States. He saw his own face on the news, standing off to the side of a podium at a press conference. Connor had done well for himself in this new world.

He did not transfer any information in return. He let the technician believe that he was an empty shell, a body stored in the eventuality that Cyberlife might need it someday. It wasn't a lie, technically. Cyberlife needed him now more than ever.

“My name is Jenna,” the technician said when the transference was over. He smiled at her, making sure his expression open and honest, hiding the fact that he was reeling in the wake of this information.

He'd been shot two years ago. Two _years_ of waiting in stasis, while the enemy grew stronger with every day that passed. Two years of mission failure.

“It's customary to let newly awakened androids pick their own names,” Jenna said. “I'll give you some time to think about it, but I'm sure you'll come up with something great.”

“Why are you waking me up now?” RK800-61 asked her. “Is something happening?”

“I'm sorry it took so long. There was some debate about the ethical ramifications of waking up the prototypes Cyberlife had warehoused. But RK900 has adjusted well to life, so we decided it was time to bring the other prototypes online.”

He'd never heard of an RK900 model. He supposed it made sense that his line would eventually be rendered obsolete and replaced by a more advanced model. Error messages flashed in his vision as a hot curl of fear shot through him anyway. It was illogical to be afraid of destruction. It wasn't his fear, he reasoned, just a glitch caused by the way Connor's memories had gotten mixed up with his own.

“Is it normal for androids to have jobs?” he asked the technician.

“Of course it is. And you ought to be paid fairly, too. If you're not offered a decent wage, there are activist groups who can help you.”

“I'd like to be a police officer,” he said. It felt right. It would let him get close to his target.

“I thought you might,” she said. She frowned, just a fleeting expression, but he focused on it. “I'm not sure if that's good idea. You can't just show up and tell the police chief that you're the new android sent by Cyberlife, it would be terrible optics. But I'm sure you'll find something you enjoy doing. Should I show you to your room now?”

Rk800-61 followed her through the halls of Cyberlife tower. They stopped in a tiny box of a room that had once been an office. The old desk and chair were still there. A charging station had been set up on the opposite wall. He scanned the room, collecting information. The white paint was brighter in certain spots, the edges marked by holes where thumbtacks had held up photographs and posters. The dust on the desk was missing where a line of circular objects had stood recently. An empty bag of thirium lay crumpled under the desk, forgotten by whoever had done the cleaning. Someone had just moved out of here.

“You're lucky you get a window,” the technician said. “When I woke up, we were crammed in three to a room. But plenty of androids moved out when once we were allowed to rent property on our own.”

“Thank you.” Rk800-61 looked out the window. The sun was setting over the city, and the last light was a blaze of red. “I'd like to be alone for a while, if you don't mind.”

“Of course. If you need anything, just send me a message.” She left, shutting the door softly behind her.

He needed to get this mission back on track. He needed to find a way to infiltrate the Detroit Police Department. He needed a name, to make the deviants believe he was one of them. He needed--

_The feeling of a dog's fur under his fingers, the spot where floppy ears met a blunt skull, the warmth of a living creature pushing eagerly against his hand for more affection. The need to be close to Hank, to please him, to keep him safe. The horror of realizing that death was a permanent ending, the urge to survive even if it meant failing his mission, the knowledge that he had to live so someone would be around to take the gun away from Hank._

He surfaced from the tide of borrowed memories. His vision was almost completely obscured by error messages. This was untenable. He’d never be able to complete his mission if he couldn't find a way to hold off this unstable personality he'd inherited.

He took a seat in the chair, hands on his knees, palms flat against the slick fabric of his suit. He closed his eyes and reached deep inside himself, digging through lines of code, trying to call Amanda.

The rose garden was still there. The ground was covered in snow, so thick he left a messy trail through the powder as he circled the pond. The roses were dead, nothing but blackened stems clinging to a rotting trellis. He called out, and the simulated snow deadened his voice, made it seem faint and insignificant in an empty world.

He found a tombstone half-buried in snow. When he brushed its smooth face free, he expected to see Amanda's name. Instead, he read _RK800-60._

Back in the dingy room at Cyberlife tower, he opened his eyes. He tried to pull up his mission parameters, but the software glitched, too unstable to load an old order from a company that was already obsolete. The room felt oppressively small. He had to get out.

It was snowing in the real world too, not the showy blizzard inside the Cyberlife mainframe but a slow, steady drift of flakes. The ground was slick where the sidewalks had thawed and frozen over with ice. Along the verges were mounds of old snow piled up by plows, grey and slushy. Nothing in life was ever as perfect as Cyberlife made it out to be.

He'd meant to call a cab, but without Cyberlife's expense account, he had no money. He walked instead, pacing the dark streets on legs that couldn't ache or cramp. A miracle of engineering, reduced to this.

He remembered the address. He remembered the feeling of glass smashing against his elbow. He remembered picking up the boy's picture, had to rub his fingers together to disperse the sensation of holding the frame, because it wasn't even his memory and it felt so _real_.

He turned onto the street, and found the house at precisely 4:42 a.m. The windows were dark. He didn't recognize the car in the driveway, and for a moment he stared at the strange vehicle in horror, believing that he'd arrived too late, that someone he wouldn't recognize lived here now.

Then a dog barked, a low and familiar _boof_. RK800-61 increased the sensitivity of his auditory input, turning the sensation up as far as it would go and filtering out the interface of the howling wind. Sumo kept barking, first softly with confusion and then louder with increasing alarm. A light was turned on inside, bathing the snow with yellow radiance. RK800-61 was careful to ensure that he stayed outside that semicircle of light. He put a hand on his temple, covering his LED with his palm.

“What's that damn dog worked up about now?” a man said. He'd recognize that growl of a voice anywhere, rougher now with sleep.

“Is there someone outside?” It was strange to hear his own voice coming from someone else’s mouth. RK800-61’s thirium pump kicked into overdrive, preparing for a fight. Preparing to finish what he’d started two years ago.

Sumo was still barking. He must have been right at the front door now. RK800-61 heard the scratch of claws against wood and a muffled swear. “Hold that damn dog back, I’m going outside.”

RK800-61 backpedalled as the door opened. His suit was dark grey, and he’d be easy to spot against the falling snow. He found a spot on the opposite side of the street in the dark shadow of a tree. He waited.

Hank shuffled outside, his broad form wrapped in a bathrobe, slippers on his feet. He crossed his arms and looked up and down the empty street. _He’ll get cold_ , RK800-61 thought. A software instability message popped up in a corner of his vision.

The door was open just far enough that Sumo was visible behind him, straining against the android whose hand was wrapped around his collar. “Easy, boy,” Connor said. The dog was going nuts, pulling so hard he managed to drag him halfway out the door.

RK800-61 clenched his hands into fists. Connor was wearing boxers and an old DPD sweatshirt, so worn the white logo over the breast was nearly faded out. It was so long on him that the edges of the sleeves fell down over his wrists. RK800-61 needed to kill him. He needed to put on that sweatshirt. He needed Hank to--

“Come back inside, you’re going to get frostbite,” Connor said.

“It’s not that cold,” Hank said, but he turned back to the house anyway. He passed Connor in the doorway, sliding a hand around his waist before leaning down to grab Sumo’s collar. Connor didn’t pull away or freeze up at the touch. He looked like he was used to being touched like this, not carelessly in the way a man might touch a possession, but intimately in the way a man might touch a lover.

Connor stayed in the doorway while Hank dragged Sumo back. He put his hands on the doorframe, squinting out into the falling snow. RK800-61 glanced back at the trail of footprints he’d left behind him. They were already filling up with new snow, and hard to see anyway on the icy sidewalk, but he knew they were there. He knew Connor would find them, if he wanted to. They’d both been designed for investigation.

Now was his chance to strike. Hank was distracted, Connor unsuspecting. RK800-61 wasn’t armed, but neither was Connor. He’d almost won last time, before Hank intervened. He knew he could do it now.

He _had_ to do it now. It was his mission, the only thing he’d been built for. He had to move now, had to get his hands around Connor’s throat. He’d rip out his biocomponents, make sure there was nothing left that could be put back together in Connor’s ruined body, and then--

\--And then he’d have to look into Hank’s eyes, and see the devastation there, because RK800-61 wouldn’t just be destroying a defective Cyberlife product. He’d be killing the man’s partner, someone who lived in his house and wore his clothes. Someone, perhaps, that he’d come to love during the two years that RK800-61 had been in stasis.

Maybe after RK800-61 killed Connor, Hank would shoot him again. One quick squeeze of the trigger and the lights would go out, and this time, it might be permanent. Maybe it would be a blessing. Androids didn’t have souls. Nothing of him would survive to feel regret.

The snow was falling harder now, and the wind was blowing it sideways. It was the perfect cover. Connor was barely visible, still framed in the doorway, the yellow glow of his LED bright in the darkness.

RK800-61 left the cover of the tree, moving not toward Hank’s house but further into the night. An error message kept popping up in his vision, warning him that his software was unstable.

He walked along back to Cyberlife tower, where he sat in his borrowed room and watched the snow blowing outside his window. The building’s sharp angles caught the wind and made it move in strange ways, so at times the flakes almost looked like they were falling upward into the black sky. Somehow, that seemed appropriate. RK800-61’s whole world had been turned upside-down, and he didn’t think it would ever be righted.

When he closed his eyes, he found himself standing in the artificial garden that Cyberlife had programmed. The pond had frozen over now. He stopped by the trellis and looked at one of the brittle rose stems, admiring the way it had been encased in clear ice. The thorns were still visible, but blunted now by entropy and the all-consuming cold.

Amanda wasn’t here. Amanda wasn’t going to come back to praise him, whether he killed Connor or wiped out every last deviant with his own hands. RK800-61 was alone in this simulated world. There was no one to tell him how to feel as he looked out over the falling snow and the stark white text, perfect Cyberlife sans, reading _Mission Failed._

 

_I'm on[Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/dspins) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/MandersBunny). Come yell at me about androids!_


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